Promise
by cactusnell
Summary: After a tragedy, Sherlock extracts a promise from Molly. Sherlolly. Character death (NOT Sherlock or Molly! I can't bring myself to do that! But be warned, this is a sad one. I just came from a viewing of the "Frankenstein" stage production, and I am depressed)


The somber gray of the London sky reflected the feeling of the small room at St. Bart's hospital. Even the heavens seemed about to weep. John Watson sat in a chair next to the bed of his beloved wife, Mary. Mary of the golden hair and the blue eyes. The almost mother of his child. The wife of his now broken heart.

Mary had died in childbirth, taking their infant with her. This sort of thing was not supposed to happen in the twenty-first century. Woman were supposed to make a dash for the maternity ward, attended by a comically concerned significant other, to be delivered of a healthy child, and released the following day to a houseful of welcoming friends and family. That's what should have happened, but didn't. The universe had decided that the retired assassin and the damaged war veteran were not to have their happy ending, after all.

John had stoically held her hand as the light went out of her eyes, and his world. He would never hear her voice again, or his baby daughter's first cry. He had risen from the chair and approached his best friend Sherlock Holmes quietly, and stood in front of him. Sherlock, never having been one for sentiment, or emotional displays, had miraculously known what he needed. He wrapped the smaller man in a great hug, and held him close as he finally gave into his sobs. Neither said a word, nor needed to. It took quite a while, but John's shoulders eventually stopped heaving, and he pulled himself away, straightened his spine, and spoke.

"Thank you, mate." He then took the proffered handkerchief. "Would you mind leaving me alone with Mary for a bit?"

"Of course not, John," Sherlock managed to get out after clearing his throat. Then he slowly turned and left the room, his mind in a turmoil belied by his calm exterior. John was strong, so much stronger than he. He had survived a war. He had survived injury. He had survived Sherlock's own faked death. He would marshal his forces and survive this, Sherlock knew. Battered quite a bit, but not broken. The detective had grave doubts about his own ability to do the same under the circumstances.

Sherlock entered the hallway as if in a daze. No one as yet knew what had happened. It had occurred so quickly. He should inform Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and of course, John's sister, Harry, who could handle the task of informing the rest of his family. But first he had to get to the morgue. It seemed a bit odd that, fleeing one death, he should seek out the company of others who had passed. But that was where he needed to be.

As soon as he walked through the door, Dr. Molly Hooper knew something was dreadfully wrong. She could always see him, see through him. As he strode toward her, his eyes never left her face. She could see them gleaming a bit in the overhead lights. Tears? Perhaps. She rose from her stool at the long laboratory table, and walked away from the microscope and toward the man she loved more than anything in the world. Something was wrong, and he needed her. And no matter how much he tried to keep her at arm's length, she was always there when he needed her.

Sherlock seemed to move a little more quickly the closer he got to Molly, and as soon as he was within reach he grabbed her forcefully by the shoulders, and pulled her to his chest, hugging her tighter and tighter as if trying to force her whole body into his. Molly wrapped her arms around his waist, knowing that something was terribly wrong, and waiting for Sherlock to say something, anything. After a moment or two, his body gave a shudder, and a single sob escaped his chest.

"Promise me, Molly! You've got to promise me!"

"Of course I promise, Sherlock. Of course. What's wrong?' Tell me. I can't help if I don't know."

"It's Mary...and the baby. This couldn't have happened! Shouldn't have happened! Oh god, poor John!" He loosened his grip enough to allow her to pull away a bit so that she could look up at him. Seeing the look of utter desolation on his face, she guessed the worst. But he pulled her into himself once again, and continued. "I'm not strong, like John. I've always been too selfish, too weak. Promise me, Molly! Promise me I'll never lose you. Promise me you'll never die!"

So Molly allowed her tears to moisten the front of his shirt, joining his own, as she promised him the impossible, knowing it was the only promise she wouldn't keep and the only words he needed to hear.


End file.
